


This

by micehell



Category: Blood Ties
Genre: Drama, F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-12
Updated: 2008-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trick was in knowing how to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This

She didn't need her sight for this. Glasses laid on her bedside table, her other senses would do. The sound of her breathing as it hitched, the smell of her own need, the taste of salt and skin on her tongue, the brush of fingers slicked to ease the way.

But she could still see what wasn't there. One set of clothes thrown in a careless heap by the bed, the sheets barely rumpled under the weight of her body, the light from the window casting its single shadow on the wall.

She didn't need Henry for this. Her fingers pinching one nipple, feeling the tug of arousal straight to the core of her, a puppet string that danced at her touch. The other hand followed that pull down, down, her tattoos sliding closer all the time. They were so wrong, so bad for her. Like Henry in his way. Power flowed through them, a firefly's touch against her skin, under it. In her, long fingers with carefully trimmed nails that teased, right there, there at the edge.

But even gone, Henry was still there. She remembered near-perfect skin, that time had barely brushed upon, pale and cool, only stolen warmth from blood that wasn't his. But he'd burned all the same, marking her as indelibly as the tattoos. Passion unmuted by death. Watching out of hooded eyes, touching her deep inside; long, careful, teasing.

She didn't need Mike for this. Two fingers in, thumbing her clit, just there, just there. Knowing full well what worked, what didn't. A change of angle, fingers creating the itch, scratching it. Familiar, adept, practical.

But even when he wasn't there, Mike was stifling. Knowing her well because he was so much like her. Knowing her well and hating when he wasn't, the weight of his disapproval like a millstone, and wielded like a weapon. But always caring, if gruff with it, hands soft even as the weight of him was grinding into her, grounding her. Long and easy on lazy weekends, fast and urgent in stolen moments; familiar, adept, practical.

She didn't need any of them. Her body throbbing, pulse a wave in her ear, musk on the air, salt on her lip. She'd done this all on her own.

She didn't need them… but she missed them all the same.

/ficlet


End file.
